


Maybe Next Year is the Year (Maybe Last Year)

by someonenotchloe



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Drinking to deal with your problems, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Misunderstandings, Snark, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, copious swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 15:19:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7579201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonenotchloe/pseuds/someonenotchloe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darcy Lewis is one of the lucky few whose soulmark contains useful information about her soulmate - the day she'll meet them, to be exact.</p>
<p>The problem is, Darcy has started to really, really hate March 11th.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe Next Year is the Year (Maybe Last Year)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "A Softer World."
> 
> Everyone has a mark on their skin showing the first words their soulmate will ever say to them. Let's just say Darcy's tired of waiting when she could be hitting on a certain very attractive archer.
> 
> Warning for cursing (if that kind of thing bothers you) and brief mentions of blood and child abuse (like, in passing, this is not a sad fic).

Darcy slammed an impressively oversized jug of vodka down on the counter, startling Jane out of her contemplations on the mysteries of space. “Hey,” she said. “Drop the science, we’re drinking now.”

Jane blinked owlishly up at her, adjusting her glasses. There was a stack of papers in front of her the size of a small refrigerator, and the sheets were slowly starting to spread out across the desk. Pretty soon, Darcy knew, they would encompass the entire lab like some kind of demented wallpaper, which was no small feat, considering the kind of square footage Tony Stark allotted to his R&D labs. But before Jane could unlock the secrets of the universe, Darcy was going to have to borrow her.

“Darcy,” said Jane, looking startled. “What are you…is that vodka?”

“Yes it is,” said Darcy. “Well spotted, Jane. Come on, let’s go up to the roof and drink this entire thing.”

“That...” said Jane hesitantly, carefully unwrapping Darcy’s fingers from around the handle of the jug, “would give both of us alcohol poisoning almost immediately and, also, liver damage.”

“Once again, you take my hyperbolic statements at face value,” said Darcy. “We’re not actually gonna drink this entire jug. This is, like, a gallon of vodka. That would be ridiculous.” She took the bottle back from Jane, turned so she was halfway out the door, then shot back, “We’re just gonna drink most of it. Come on, or I’ll drink it myself,” and disappeared into the hallway with Jane calling her name. Jane would follow her, though, she was sure, so she just meandered down the plush carpeting to the elevator. She wasn’t in a hurry. This day – her least favorite day of the year – still had a long way to go.

It hadn’t always been her least favorite day of the year. When she was a kid, she’d loved it. She would wake up in the morning, leap out of bed, and go racing into her mother’s room to wake her up. She’d been so excited, each and every year. It was like Christmas. It was better than Christmas. She would force her mother to get dressed and then the two of them would go out, to the mall or the zoo or wherever, and the whole way there Darcy would be clinging to herself in excitement and glee. _Maybe today will be the day_ , she’d think. _Maybe this year. Maybe I’m finally going to meet my soulmate._

Because Darcy Lewis, just like some 10% of the population, was lucky enough to have a date included in her soulmark. It wasn’t unheard of, especially since “What day is it?” was also a common one, and almost everyone knew someone with a date (or some kind of identifying information) stamped on their skin somewhere. But it was much more common to have nothing useful whatsoever in your mark. Most people either had simple greetings (like Darcy’s friend, Desiree, whose mark just read, “sup?”), or declarations of undying love, presumably in response to whatever they’d said that had tipped their soulmate off. Darcy wasn’t sure which would be better. Some of the declarations got pretty long.

So she was lucky. Oh yeah. Super lucky.

In a delicate but sharp script on Darcy’s left hip, it said, “I didn’t know March 11th was a holiday. What are we celebrating?”

So little Darcy would go out every March 11th, hoping her soulmate would approach her. Her mother indulged her, although she would shake her head sometimes and say, “You can’t force Fate.” She would wait and wait and wait, and when the day inevitably ended without anyone riding up on a white horse to say, “I didn’t know March 11th was a holiday. What are we celebrating?” she would be bitterly disappointed. She cried herself to sleep every March 11th for _years._ And yet, she still kept putting herself out there.

But then Darcy’s mother died, and she had to leave Iowa and go live with her father in New Mexico, and he was not nearly as inclined to support her fantasies. Darcy’s parents hadn’t been soulmates. She knew that. She’d been an accident between two people who could not have been more unsuitable, and her father had never really been a part of her life. Her mother had worked three jobs to keep a roof over their heads, and of Darcy’s father, she would say, “He loves you as much as he knows how.” Darcy hadn’t understood that until she moved in with him. She’d assumed he’d had her and then gone on to find his soulmate and start a “real” family, and he’d had no place in his life for an illegitimate daughter. She’d been wrong. He had no place in his life for anyone. Her father was a cold, sad man who lived in the big house afforded him by his professorship at Culver University all alone, except for the sudden addition of a sixteen year old girl. She’d been sad and angry and confused, and it wasn’t until she spotted his soulmark that she understood, at least a little. It was the faded grey of a soulmate who had died, and it read, “Oh god, I’m bleeding.”

Her father did not believe in soulmates. Darcy stopped going out on March 11th, and she found she was honestly a lot happier that way. It was so much easier to stay in and drink. Hence, the enormous bottle of vodka she was currently lugging into the Avengers private elevator. “Top floor, please, JARVIS,” she said. The elevator doors started to close, but were stopped by the sudden insertion of a couple of pale arms and half of Jane’s body. “Wait!” she called, pushing through the doors and landing in front of Darcy. “Friends don’t let friends drink alone.”

“Cool,” said Darcy, and warmth spread through her as she smiled at Jane.

“So,” said Jane, as the elevator ascended through the tower. “It’s March 11th.”

“Ah,” said Darcy, waving the bottle. “You’ve figured it out. Soulmate Day.”

“But Darcy,” she said, “what if you meet him and you’re…how do I put this…completely shitfaced?”

“Then he will have plenty of prior warning before he gets into it with all this,” Darcy said, gesturing at her body, clad in jeans and a black t-shirt.

Jane just sighed, stepping off as the elevator doors opened. She seemed perfectly comfortable on the top floor, (Avengers common spaces), since she probably spent time with Thor there, but Darcy had rarely even been up there. She spent her time in R&D wrangling scientists, or with Pepper handling PR. She couldn’t resist peering around as they headed down the hallway to the stairs to the roof. She wasn’t expecting to actually see someone, so when she locked eyes with someone gulping coffee in the Avengers kitchen, she flushed across her cheeks and up her ears. He grinned at her, a great smile, full of teeth, and she recognized him as Hawkeye, or, as she’d read in his file, Clinton Francis Barton. And boy. Clinton Francis Barton. All the Avengers were lookers, but there was something about him – was it the unconventional good looks? The sense of humor she heard in his interviews? The smile? The arms? Probably the arms – that made her feel weak in the knees. Of all the people to catch her creeping around their living spaces. She returned the smile sheepishly then hustled past to the roof door.

Darcy - and Jane, to a lesser extent - was several shots in already when she abruptly turned to Jane and pushed her. “Hey!” said Jane, clutching at the vodka bottle, “W’was that for?”

“Bonded people suck,” she said, taking back the bottle. “’S not fair.”

“It’s not _my_ fault I found my soulmate and you haven’t,” said Jane, perhaps unwisely, because Darcy’s eyes narrowed to slits. She seriously considered punching Jane right in her pretty face. But no. She had to protect Jane. Protect Jane and her pretty, pretty face.

Even if she _was_ infuriatingly happy, when Darcy…

Wasn’t.

It wasn’t like she bought into all that crap about not being able to be happy without her soulmate. “It’s not like I buy into that crap about not being able to be happy without your soulmate,” she assured Jane. “It’s just…I spent so long waiting and hoping and…”

“I know,” said Jane. “You think I don’t know? Before Thor, I waited… long time. I dunno. A long time.” She made grabby hands at the vodka, and Darcy handed it back to her, somewhat reluctantly.

“It’s just,” she said, and something clutched in her chest painfully. “I keep thinking I’ve given up, that it’ll just happen when it happens and…”

“Except for today,” said Jane sagely.

“Yeah,” Darcy sighed, leaning back in one of the plastic lawn chairs someone had set up on the roof. Darcy was extremely pleased when she first found them there. They made brooding on the roof so much easier. “Except for today. Today…I hope again. And I’m tired of it.”

“Yeah,” said Jane.

“I just want to give up,” Darcy sighed, sliding lower in her chair. “I want to give up on waiting and get out there and date people I don’t meet on March 11th and see where it goes.”

“Yeah, I hear you,” said Jane, and she held the vodka bottle to her lips but didn’t drink. “Date some really buff guy with excellent arms.”

“Damn straight.”

“Someone with a great smile. Someone who makes you laugh. And,” Jane chuckled into the vodka bottle. “Someone who can match your…personality.”

“Are we making a laundry list of essential qualities? Are you, Jane Foster, currently comparing this to your list of eligible men friends?”

“No!” said Jane, sounding scandalized, which of course meant she was. “I’m just saying. You’d need somebody pretty great to keep up with you.”

“This is, sadly, true. No one can handle all my awesome.”

“Even if you could find someone like that, they’d need security clearance,” Jane added. “You don’t want to have to lie to them about what you do.”

Darcy let out a whistle. “True. That really narrows down the suspect list, doesn’t it?”

“Mmhmm,” said Jane casually. “Didn’t you say you liked athletic guys, though? You know who’s really muscular?”

“SHIELD agents?” Darcy said.

“Mm, yeah.” Jane sloshed the vodka around, looking innocent. “And Avengers.”

Darcy sat forward to stare at her, her hair swinging into her face. “Jane. You’re not suggesting I put the moves on an Avenger?”

“Oh, come on,” said Jane, grinning. “You know you like him! I’ve seen you mooning around after him, recording all the news clips of him on tivo.”

“Who?” said Darcy, her voice going embarrassingly high-pitched.

“Clint!” said Jane. “I think you two would be really good together.”

“I don’t like Clint!” said Darcy, sounding, she hoped, shocked, even though just saying his name sent warmth curling through her belly. Goddamnit, she knew she should never have recorded those clips where Jane could find them. Jane spent way too much time watching tv in Darcy’s rooms, when Thor was away on missions, for that to be a safe thing to do. “I don’t even know Clint!”

“He’s great, though!” said Jane, sounding desperately earnest, although part of that may have been the vodka. “He’s…kind of a human catastrophe, but Darce, that totally suits you!”

“Thanks, Jane,” said Darcy sarcastically. “You know, one of these days I’m going to have to teach you normal human manners.”

“Sorry,” said Jane. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” said Darcy.

“I just want you to be happy, Darcy,” said Jane softly, and Darcy met her eyes. She gave her a soft smile.

“I know, Jane.” She sighed. “Okay. From this day onward, I’m gonna stop waiting for Mr. Right and start putting myself out there. Not with Clint,” she said sharply, holding up a finger to stop Jane’s protests. “I’ve never even met the guy. He probably gets enough groupies as it is.”

“You’ve never met Clint?” said Jane, looking confused. “I thought you’d met the whole team.”

“Not Clint or Nat, they were on a mission when I got here. Not the point,” she said. “The point is, I’m gonna get me a date and I’m not gonna care if he’s my soulmate or not.”

“Good plan,” said Jane, though she looked thoughtful, like Darcy was a science problem she thought she had the answer to.

“It is no longer brooding-on-the-roof, drinking-too-much-liquor Soulmate Day,” said Darcy. “It is now happy-go-lucky, let’s-just-do-our-thing-and-stop-waiting-for-prince-charming Soulmate Day.”

“Damn straight!” said Jane. “To Soulmate Day.”

“To Soulmate Day!” said Darcy, raising an imaginary glass to clink against the bottle Jane was holding. Jane took an uncoordinated drink (she should probably cut Jane off) then handed it over to Darcy, laughing. “This is now officially the best holiday instead of the worst,” she said, taking the bottle. As she raised it to her lips, an amused male voice came from the stairwell door, over Darcy’s right shoulder.

“I didn’t know March 11th was a holiday. What are we celebrating?”

Darcy choked on cheap vodka (because expensive vodka doesn’t come in enormous jugs). She slowly lowered the bottle, and Jane must have thought she was in danger of dropping it, because she seized it from her immediately. She turned slowly, twisting around her chair to get sight of her soulmate. _Her soulmate._

It was Clinton Francis Barton.

He was leaning casually against a wall, wearing a black tank top he must have had on under his hoodie, because Darcy _definitely_ would have remembered catching a glimpse of those shoulders when she walked past him in the kitchen. His jeans were stretched tight over his muscular thighs, his shirt clinging to his pecs, and Darcy felt her breath hitch shakily as she took in the sight of _her motherfucking soulmate._

She wasn’t saying anything. God, why wasn’t she saying anything? He was starting to look at her funny. “Am I interrupting girl time?” he said, cocking his head. “Only, those are my chairs you’re sitting in. Not that I mind too much if a coupla pretty girls want to use ‘em for a bit. But at least let me get in on it. I do a mean French braid.” He grinned at her, and her eyes gravitated toward his mouth, which was just…sinful, oh my god, those lips should be illegal.

“You’ve never French braided my hair,” Jane said, sounding hurt, and Darcy realized Jane _hadn’t_ realized Clint was her soulmate. Jane didn’t know the exact contents of Darcy’s soulmark, she couldn’t just freak out any time anyone mentioned the date. Darcy was the only one freaking out. She still hadn’t said anything. What was _wrong_ with her?

“Face that way,” Clint said, gesturing away from him, and Jane daintily faced forward. Clint offered Darcy a smile, which she managed, somehow, to return.  His hands deftly went to work on Jane’s hair, his fingers blunt and callused, but surprisingly quick and gentle. A shiver ran across Darcy’s skin. She wanted his hands all over her.

She could have that, she realized. He was her soulmate. He _must_ want her back. Except, of course, that that wasn’t necessarily the case. One thing Darcy had learned from her cold and bitter father was that soulmates didn’t always work out. He had a million bitter, angry stories about soulmates who’d rejected each other, or wound up hating each other, and, of course, it was well known that sometimes soulmates were just platonic. They were the perfect best friends, with no romantic component. Oh god. What if that was all Clint wanted from her? Could she be just friends with a guy she was crazy about?

She still hadn’t said anything. Maybe it would be easier if…she just…didn’t. If she never spoke to him he’d never know and he’d never be able to reject her. Yes. This was good, this was a good plan. Of course, Jane would disagree. Already she was looking at Darcy meaningfully, flicking her eyes towards Clint as he pulled strands of hair back from her face. Darcy made wide, terrified eyes at Jane, which, hopefully, Jane would attribute to her being starstruck. Jane rolled her eyes.

“I take it,” said Clint, still looking at Jane’s hair, “you two are having a silent conversation. Considering you’re…you know…silent.”

“Sorry,” said Jane. “So, Clint, Darcy tells me she’s never actually met you?”

“Guess not,” said Clint, glancing up and meeting her eyes with a smile. “I hear a lot about you from Thor, though.”

Darcy just smiled, lips stretched a little too thin, and nodded. She would say nothing. Eventually he would have to go away.

“Darcy and I were just…drinking,” said Jane, looking at the vodka jug.

“So I see,” said Clint, sounding amused.

Darcy didn’t say anything. Jane glared at her.

“There you are,” said Clint, patting Jane’s hair. “Got a hair tie?”

“Darcy probably does. She’s always prepared for any situation,” Jane said, laughing.

“I admire that,” he said, flashing her a smile and a flirty wink, which, okay, so not prepared for. She did have a hair tie, though. She pulled one off her wrist, held it out to him. He was being so friendly and she was being such a jerk, and when he took the hair tie, she made sure to give him her best thousand watt smile, the one that snagged her the affections of Jefferson High School varsity football quarterback Ben Miller in the 10th grade. He looked a little dazed. Good. She still had it.

He tied off Jane’s hair, and Darcy wordlessly handed her a compact out of her purse so she could admire herself. Clint laughed, a low, gravelly chuckle that sent electricity zinging up and down her spine and made her want to tear all his clothes off and throw herself at him. “You really are prepared for anything, huh?” he said. “Want me to braid your hair, too? You got another hair tie somewhere in that purse of yours?”

Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ Jesus Christ Jesus Christ. He was so nice, and funny, and hot, oh my god smoking hot. He didn’t deserve this. She should just tell him. She should just come right out and say it. Really. It would be that easy. “Hey, just thought you should know, you’re my soulmate.” One sentence. She could manage one sentence. And then he would know, and he could…respond however he responded (the thought made her stomach lurch sickeningly), and then…and then that would be that. All she had to do was say it.

“I can’t believe you know how to French braid,” she blurted out, and then she locked eyes with him, her expression horrified. His was…fuck, what emotion was that? Was it just shock? Was he upset she hadn’t said something sooner, or was he upset it was _her_ and not some other, prettier girl, one with red hair and great cheekbones and the ability to kill men with her thighs? Oh god, what if he and Natasha were a _thing_ already, she’d heard rumors to that effect and there was no way in hell she could go toe to toe with Natasha Romanoff. She was gonna die. She’d just met her soulmate and now he was gonna tell his ex-KGB assassin girlfriend about her and she was gonna die. “Welp,” she said, standing abruptly. “I’m just gonna…” she gestured noncommittally at the door, then made a break for it.

“Wait, Darcy-” she heard Clint say, but she was already halfway down the stairs. She just had to get back to her rooms. Yes, her rooms, where she could lock the door and hide from the tragedy that was her life.

She got there in record time. “JARVIS? Lock everything down, would you?”

“Of course, Miss Lewis,” said a crisp voice, and she collapsed onto her sofa.

“Fuck,” she said.

“Indeed, Miss Lewis,” JARVIS said, and he sounded almost sympathetic.

She gave a long, and long-suffering, sigh. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”

“Only slightly, Miss Lewis. When Sir bonded with Miss Potts, his reaction was much, much worse.”

“I can imagine,” Darcy said, laughing. “Listen…if Jane comes looking for me, can you just tell her I’m alright and send her away?”

“I have already done so, Miss Lewis. However, Agent Barton is being much more…persistent.”

She sat up, ramrod straight. “He’s here?”

“Yes, Miss Lewis. He followed you from the rooftop almost immediately and is now sitting outside your front door. My attempts to inform him that you wish to be left alone have been ignored.”

“Does he look…angry?”

“I am hardly an expert on human emotions, Miss Lewis, but that is not how I would describe him, no. Perhaps…shaken would be a better word?”

“Shit,” she said, collapsing back into her couch. “I should probably go talk to him, huh?”

“I believe that would be wise, Miss Lewis.”

“Thanks, J. Hold down the fort, okay?”

“Of course, Miss Lewis.”

She stood up, sat back down, almost chickened out, slapped herself across the face, then stood again and crossed the room in quick strides. She pulled open the door without allowing herself time to think about what she was doing. There was Clint, looking as gorgeous as ever. He was sitting across the hall, leaning against the wall, feet flat on the ground and forearms resting on his knees. He looked up and met her eye unflinchingly, although he definitely did look shaken. One combat boot was jittering nervously. She opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it, and slid to the floor across from him.

“Look-” they both said at the same time, then stopped. She gestured vaguely at him to go first, and he took a deep and unsteady breath.

“Look,” he said. “I know I’m…you know…maybe not what you pictured when you thought about your soulmate. I ain’t no Prince Charming, that’s for sure. I’m a lot older than you, there’s a good chance I’m gonna get not so lucky one of these days and not come back from a mission, and my head’s a mess. It’d take a team of psychiatrists to sort out my shit. Trust me, I’ve got one.” He cracked a smile. “I know how to French braid. I can even do makeup. Man of many talents.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking frustrated. “My point is, I’ve done a lot of bad shit and I’m pretty messed up, but…I just…I know it’s selfish, because…fuck, _I’m_ pretty selfish, but I just…don’t want you to write me off just like that.” He tugged at his hair awkwardly. “Gimme a chance, Darce. Please?”

“I…” She stared at him. “Are you trying to convince me not to reject _you_?”

“Well…” he looked at his hands. “Yeah, I guess that’s about the gist of it.”

“Clint,” she said, in a small voice, her heart aching at the thought that he would think she didn’t want him. “I’m not trying to reject you. God, I’m…I’m really sorry I reacted like I did. I just…kinda…panicked.” She offered him a small smile, and he returned it gratefully.

“Oh,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Look, that stuff still stands – I’m pretty messed up, and I don’t…I don’t want…” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Fuck, talking about feelings is hard. What I’m saying is, we don’t have to…be…involved. Romantically, I mean. We can just be friends.”

“Oh,” said Darcy, her heart flooded with pain exactly as if he’d shot her with an arrow. Clint Barton never misses. “I…yeah. We can…be friends.”

He smiled at her, something almost vulnerable, and Darcy couldn’t bring herself to break that trust by asking for more. “I’m glad you came out to talk to me.”

“Me too,” said Darcy. A lie. “Look, I…this is all a lot to process. I…” she kind of jerked her head back into her rooms, and he nodded his understanding.

“I get it. We can talk later. Just… yeah.” He stood up, offered her a hand, and helped her to her feet. “I’m glad we can be friends, Darcy Lewis.”

“Same to you, Clint Barton,” she said, and she smiled. Another lie.

When he was gone, she fell on her bed and wept.

*************************************************************************************

                Clint’s day had started out pretty okay. He got to sleep in – no Assembling right in the middle of his REM cycle, that was always good. There was coffee in the Avengers kitchen when he shambled in, tugging his sweatshirt over his head, and he immediately started drinking it out of the pot.

Natasha was sitting at the table when he did, giving him a side eye that told him she was disgusted but wasn’t gonna say anything. She folded up her newspaper, pointedly picked up her mug of coffee, and headed out. “Aw, Nat,” he said, “don’t be like that. Here, I’m getting a mug, look.”

She still looked disgusted, but she hovered in the doorway until Clint had filled his mug with steaming black coffee. He inhaled the mug and poured another one.

“Barton,” she said, “you are going to get heart problems and die if you keep mainlining caffeine like you do.”

“True, but at least I’ll be awake for it.”

“You slept for ten hours, how can you possibly still be tired.”

“You’d be surprised,” he said, taking a calmer sip now that he knew he had some caffeine in his bloodstream.

“Yeah,” said Nat, surprisingly gently. “You often surprise me.”

“Careful, Nat,” he said. “That sounded almost affectionate. Or were you hoping to lure me back into your bed? You seductress you.”

“In your dreams, Barton. I have standards now.”

“Ah well,” he said. “One day I will find a girl without those, and she will love me unconditionally.”

“Like your soulmate, maybe?” Nat said, her eyes going to his hip and back. He unconsciously pressed his fingers against the words there, flinching slightly.

“Nah,” he said, keeping his tone light. “If she doesn’t like my French braiding she can just go get herself another soulmate.”

It was hard to even talk about it with Nat without cracking jokes. There was so much bound up in his relationship – as it were – with his soulmate. There was his disappointment that he’d gotten to 40 without meeting her, his fear that she would have already found someone, given up on him the way he’d never been able to give up on her. There was his father’s belt against his skin, his cruel jokes about how even his soulmate could tell he was a fucking pussy, what kind of man knows how to French braid? And, living pitifully underneath it all, his hope. His crazy, desperate hope that he’d find somebody who could…love him, really. Care about him the way nobody ever had.

Aw, shit, he was getting all fucking emotional and Nat could undoubtedly tell. He flashed her a grin to show he was fine. She remained unconvinced, but she turned to go.

“Take better care of yourself,” she snapped as she headed out the door, and he grinned.

“Aw, Nat, you do care!” he called. He was smiling as he leaned against the counter, taking a gulp of coffee. As he did so, movement outside the kitchen caught his eye. There was a girl there. He thought he recognized her – what was her name? Darcy? – and he was pretty sure she had clearance to be there, but he was still surprised to see her on their floor. She didn’t really hang out with them, although Thor talked about her as his “shield sister.” High praise. She was peering into the kitchen, and she had that wide-eyed fangirl look. He smiled wider, and that was when her eyes met his, and she blushed very prettily. She _was_ very pretty, he noticed. Probably in her twenties, masses of dark hair, and an hourglass figure that would make any man sit up and take notice. Clint felt a little bit bad about ogling a girl half his age, but not, perhaps, as bad as he should have. She offered him a smile, and her lips caught his attention. His thoughts lingered on them after she was gone, Jane scurrying after her.

“That is a fine looking woman,” he said to himself.

“You should talk to her,” said Nat, appearing out of nowhere.

“Fuck! Nat,” he said, dabbing at the hot coffee he’d spilled on his front. “Sneak up on a guy, why don’t you?”

“If you like Lewis, you should talk to her. She thinks you’re cute, although I have no idea why.”

“She’s like 20,” he said.

“Hmmm,” she said. “Could be that. No standards yet.”

“Shut up, Nat,” he said. “I mean, she’s too young for me.”

“She’s at least 25, to be fair,” Nat said. “And if she’s into it, what’s stopping you? Rob the cradle.”

“You’re awful,” he said, pulling off his sweatshirt in one smooth movement and flinging it on a chair. “You’re a terrible friend.”

“I’m a great friend,” Natasha said, taking his coffee mug from him. “She went up to the roof, go after her.”

He sighed heavily. “If I try to talk to her, will you give back the coffee?”

“Promise,” she said. “Now go.”

Clint went.

Reluctantly.

She and Jane were talking when he reached the door. He hovered uncertainly, carefully not listening while at the same time trying to gauge when would be a good time to enter the conversation. Eventually, he just said, “Fuck it,” pushed open the door, and stepped out onto the roof. The roof was one of his favorite places to be, and also to be sad. Or, as Nat called it, “brood.” He’d set up chairs there for the purpose. Jane and Darcy were sitting in those chairs, holding an enormous bottle of vodka and laughing. “This is officially the best holiday instead of the worst,” Darcy said, taking a swig from the vodka.

He racked his brain, but he couldn’t think of any holiday. “I didn’t know March 11th was a holiday,” he remarked. “What are we celebrating?”

Darcy spit out her drink. Jane looked startled and took the bottle from Darcy as she turned around in her seat. Wow, she was beautiful. And…staring at him like she’d just seen the devil. That was…encouraging. He grinned, cracked jokes, and offered to braid their hair. Was it kind of masochistic to indulge his hopes like that? Yes. But was it hurting him any? Also yes.

Jane took him up on his offer, and as he got to it with her hair he felt, more than saw, that she and Darcy were silently communicating. Darcy still hadn’t spoken to him. He wondered if she was mad at him. They’d obviously come up here for a reason, and it wasn’t to be hit on. He should probably just go. He just had to make a little bit of casual conversation, finish Jane’s hair. It was looking pretty good, if he did say so himself.

“There,” he said. “Got a hair tie?”

“Darcy probably does. She’s always prepared for any situation,” Jane said, and he grinned. His kind of woman.

“I admire that,” he said, winking at her as he took the hair tie. And then she smiled.

Jesus Christ, it was like being blinded. He’d never seen a smile like it. Her whole face lit up, her eyes sparkled like motherfucking cliché diamonds, and it made him feel like he was the best damn thing she’d ever seen. It hit him straight in the stomach like a suckerpunch. He tied off Jane’s hair in a daze, and Darcy pulled out a compact. He shook his head, gave a small laugh. He really did admire that kind of preparedness. In no way did that resemble _him_ – ever – but it was always something he liked in other people. Then, because he was a sucker for punishment, he offered to braid her hair, too. He was honestly really hoping she’d say yes. He wanted, very, very badly, to get his hands in that gorgeous hair. He wanted to tuck it behind her ear, to play with it as she was falling asleep.

Fuck, he had it bad.

“I can’t believe you know how to French braid,” she said, and then she looked at him, her expression about as startled as his probably was.

That was his mark.

Of course, it was hardly the first time anyone had said that to him. It was a fact that could be hard to believe. But going off the expression on Darcy’s face, this was it. She knew there was a significance to her first words to him because he’d already said her words to him. Fuck, what had he even said? What words had been on Darcy’s skin all these years?

Darcy.

His soulmate.

Fuck. His brain was spiraling in weird and wobbly circles, and from the look on her face, Darcy was doing much better. She looked kind of… scared? She stood up abruptly, almost knocking over his chair. “Welp, I’m just gonna…” she said, trailing off. Then she bolted for the stairs.

“Wait, Darcy-” he started, but it was too late. She was already gone.

“Fuck,” he said.

“Clint,” said Jane behind him, and when he turned, she was staring after Darcy tearfully. “Clint, is she your soulmate?”

“My…” he started, then he swallowed, and nodded. “Yeah. She’s my soulmate.” He said the words quietly. _My soulmate._ He savored them, sank into them like a hot bath. She was his soulmate.

“I have to go talk to her,” said Jane, hustling down the stairs, and Clint followed her. He had to talk to her, too. He didn’t understand why she’d run away. Well, okay, he had an idea. Old enough to be her father, hugely fucked up mentally, and kind of failure at life generally were probably not her first picks for her soulmate. She… he came to a stop halfway down the stairs, chest tightening painfully. She probably didn’t want a romantic relationship with him and was scared he’d push it. Well. It didn’t have to be that way. It would kill him, but it didn’t have to. They could be… friends. The word was a bitter pill.

He passed Jane in the hall on the way to Darcy’s room, and she said, “Darcy isn’t letting me in.” He shrugged.

“Still have to try.”

“Yeah,” said Jane, and continued up the hallway. He headed down until he came to Darcy’s door. He had a fist stretched out to knock when JARVIS’ voice sounded through the hallway.

“Miss Lewis is not accepting visitors at present, Agent Barton. May I suggest you try again when she is available?”

“Sure,” said Clint. “You can suggest it. I still wanna talk to her now, though.”

JARVIS tried to argue with him, but Clint was having none of it. He slid down the wall he was leaning against and waited.

After a long moment, Darcy emerged from her rooms. She looked a little shaken, but mostly fine. Good. That was good. She lowered herself to the floor, obviously willing to talk, and that was good too. And if she wanted him to talk first, well…he could talk first. He just had to explain himself. His words were a jumble, but he talked anyway, and she listened.

“Are you trying to convince me not to reject you?” she asked, when he was done talking.

“Yeah, I guess that’s about the gist of it,” he said. She clearly understood. And she said she was sorry for panicking, so obviously she didn’t hate him or anything. Maybe they could actually be friends, at least. He’d been worried, when she wouldn’t talk to him, that she didn’t even want that. He just wanted to make sure she knew he was fine with it (mostly) if she just wanted to be friends. The part that wasn’t fine with it would just have to sit down and shut up.

“Look, this is a lot to process,” she said, indicating she wanted to head back in. He understood that. He could probably use some time, too. He had to pick up the pieces of the things he’d hoped for and then figure out how to let them go. He stood, offered her a hand, and pulled her to her feet.

“I’m glad we can be friends, Darcy Lewis,” he said.

“Same to you, Clint Barton,” she said, and she smiled.

Her smile was going to be the death of him, he thought, on the way back to his rooms. Even in its diminished form it went straight to his heart. And his groin. Combination of the two.

And wasn’t that just Darcy Lewis all over?

He was really looking forward to just collapsing onto his bed and not dealing with his emotions when he was stopped in the hall by an angry-looking Natasha. Never a good thing.

“So I just had an interesting conversation with Jane Foster,” she said coolly, and he winced.

“That so?” he said.

“Oh, yeah,” she said, nodding slowly. “And she says you and Darcy Lewis and soulmates. Only if that’s the case, you should be all happy. And you’re not all happy. So I’m assuming, you being you, you did some bonehead thing and fucked it up, and now you’re sulking off to feel sorry for yourself instead of fixing it.”

That wasn’t a bad guess, honestly, but… “No,” he said. “We’re all good. She just wants to be friends, that’s all.”

Natasha’s angry expression softened. “Oh, Clint,” she said. “I’m sorry.” Then her frown deepened. “But that doesn’t make any sense! She’s been mooning over you for ages, why wouldn’t she jump you like a turnstile as soon as you spoke to her?”

“You’ve probably just got it wrong, Nat,” said Clint. Which, admittedly, wasn’t extremely likely under normal circumstances. But it was the only explanation. “Look, I just… wanna go sort some shit out. Without talking about it. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Nat. “Can I come with you?”

That was different. Nat never asked if she could hang out in his rooms, she just tolerated him getting annoyed about it when she chose to do so. Maybe he was more obviously distressed than he’d been hoping. “Sure,’ he said. “Come on.”

Nat put a bad sitcom on his tv and he made popcorn, then the two of them sat on the couch together, heckling the characters and avoiding any topic that involved emotions. It was good. It was what he needed. He needed his best friend to watch tv and eat junk food with him all day, except when she went out to buy them beer. He needed the way Natasha gave him an uncharacteristic hug, clinging to him like she was trying to hold him together. When she nodded off on his couch, he carefully put a blanket over her and pressed a kiss to her cheek. She was so much better as a friend than a girlfriend. Their relationship had been…explosive. Their friendship was much smoother sailing.

He was rudely awakened by a loud banging on his door early the next morning. He groaned, low and long, and tumbled out of bed in a tangle of sheets. He stumbled out of his room, clad in nothing but bright purple boxers, and found that Nat had already answered the door for him. On the other side of it, looking askance at his boxers, which, rude, was Darcy. She’d obviously come by, probably to talk, on the assumption that Clint was a normal person who got up at anything approaching a normal hour.

Well, he didn’t. How could she wake him up like that?

“Oh, hi,” she said, giving him a little wave, and the way her eyes lingered on his abs made him stand up a little straighter and hope, just a teeny bit, that she would change her mind. Maybe that was even why she was here now, maybe she’d decided that it was silly to not even _try_ a romantic relationship with your soulmate. _I mean,_ he thought, with a flash of irritation. _Who does that? Who just decides they and their_ soulmate _are better off as friends?_

“Hey,” he said, trying not to put any of his emotional firestorm behind his words. “How’s it going?”

She swallowed, glanced at Nat, then looked back at him, careful to keep her gaze at eye level. “Um,” she said. “It’s…good. I wanted to…talk, I guess? I mean, you don’t even have my phone number, so…”

“Yeah,” said Clint, biting back his disappointment. “Here, gimme your phone, I’ll text myself.”

She handed it over with a smile. “You know, for the oldest guy on the team you have a much better grasp on technology. Steve still can’t handle the idea that a _phone_ could fit in his _pocket_ ,” she said, matching Steve’s marvel-at-the-future-ain’t-it-swell? tone of voice perfectly, “much less all the other things he could do with it. Same goes for Bucky. And Thor thinks our devices are just the cutest little things.”

Clint grinned at her, but he also felt a pang of jealousy. Did she hang out with all the members of the team? Would she treat him – her soulmate – any differently? Did she (and this was the most chilling thought yet) maybe have feelings for one of them, and that was why she didn’t want to date him? He bet it was Steve. Women loved Steve. Darcy probably liked his damaged superhero/kid from Brooklyn charms.

So Clint wasn’t from New York. What the fuck ever. Small town Iowa wasn’t _inherently_ inferior to Brooklyn. If that was the kind of thing Steve thought, Clint had no idea what Darcy saw in him. What a fucking dick.

He blinked a little. He had never thought of Steve as a dick before.

Of course, that was before he put the moves on Clint’s soulmate.

Fucking Steve.

What had they been talking about?

He snapped himself out of his jealousy as best he could, made sure Darcy had his number and he had hers. He thought for a second about putting her in his phone under “Soulmate” or some kind of cutesy nickname, but in the end he just settled on “Darcy.”

“So,” said Darcy a little awkwardly, glancing nervously at Nat. “I guess I should go.” Her eyes flicked back to him. They were dark and rich and he wanted to look into them forever, despite the fact that he had previously despised that kind of “limpid pools” bullshit. He really, really didn’t want her to go.

“Okay,” he said. He waved his phone a little. “I’ll text you.”

“Okay,” said Darcy quietly. Then she flashed him that bright smile. “See you.”

She disappeared out the door.

Nat closed it carefully, crossed the room to where Clint was standing, and smacked him full across the face.

“Ow!” he protested, clinging to his face. “You’re gonna kill me doing that.”

“Impossible,” said Natasha. “There’s nothing in your head to damage.” She smacked him again, this time on the other cheek and not as hard. “You’re a moron.”

“In what way am I a moron?”

“Darcy is crazy about you, I was right the whole time, and you now owe me for the time I spent comforting you.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he said. “Darcy’s into jerks from Brooklyn who can’t operate a fucking cellphone. Seriously, what kind of a person is so smug about their hometown?”

“What?”

“Nothing,” said Clint. “Look, Darcy just wants to be friends.”

“No she does not!” said Nat. “Where did you even get this idea into your head?”

“She said so!”

“Did she though?” said Nat, and her gaze pinned him like a butterfly on a corkboard. “Did she say, ‘Clint, I want us to be friends and platonic soulmates,’ or is this something you made up because you assumed nobody could love you?” He flinched, and she reached out a gentle hand to hold onto his shoulder. “She is not me, Clint. She’s definitely not your mother. She already loves you. You just have to let her.”

“But she said…” he began, but doubt had already entered his mind. What had she said exactly? That they could be friends. But that was after he’d said it, so that didn’t count. She’d run away from him, but then she’d apologized for panicking.

She had never, in fact, said anything about not wanting him.

“Fuck!” said Clint, thrusting his fingers into his hair. “Fuck fuck fuck, I fucked up, I fucked up big time.” What had she said in the hallway? “Clint, are you trying to convince me not to reject you?”

But it was more like, “Clint, are you trying to convince me not to reject _you_?”

“She was afraid I was going to reject her,” he said helplessly, sinking onto his couch. “She was afraid I was going to reject her so she ran away and I thought she was rejecting _me_ so I…” He blew out a breath of air. “I asked if we could be friends.” He looked up at Nat, who looked like she was delicately restraining an “I told you so” that was bursting to be free. “I did this. I hurt her.”

The thought was so horrifying he didn’t hear what Natasha said next. He looked up and blinked at her. “What?”

She rolled her eyes. “I said, ‘yeah, you did.’” She leaned in close, til she was nose to nose with him. “Now go fix it.”

*************************************************************************************

                When Darcy woke up the next morning, she was pissed.

                It wasn’t unheard of for Darcy to wake up on the very, very wrong side of the bed, desperate to vent her pointless rage on anyone who came near, but this wasn’t like that. This was different.

                She was pissed at Clint.

                Who the fuck did he think he was? Who just rejects their soulmate out of hand like that? Just goes, ‘haha, nope,’ and heads for the hills?

                Darcy was aware that she was a hypocrite, but that didn’t stop her from being pissed. Besides, he hadn’t run away in the literal, I-need-a-breather way (like she had). He’d put the kibosh on the very notion that the two of them might have a romantic relationship. Okay, yeah, whatever, he was a fair bit older than her, and a fair bit more damaged than her, and much more likely to be killed in the line of fire. She didn’t give a shit. He was her soulmate, those were the kinds of things soulmates dealt with.

She was thinking terrible thoughts about him as she pulled on the closest clothes she could find, and as she was taking the elevator to his floor, and as she was walking up and down his hallway trying to get up the courage to actually knock on his door. But when the door opened and she found a sleep-rumpled Natasha leaning on the doorframe, she stopped being pissed at him. She was pretty sure she made a small, hurt sound. She hadn’t been aware something could hurt this much. Like, she’d known he and Natasha were a thing, but…

Knowing that and seeing the evidence that on the night your soulmate discovered he was destined to be with you he turned around and screwed another girl were two very different things.

When Clint appeared, looking annoyed and wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, Darcy fumbled an excuse about wanting his phone number and got out of there as fast as she could. Pretending to be okay with it just took too much out of her. She retreated to the rooftop. The sight of those chairs was a sting. She’d been so grateful for them, and even though he hadn’t put them there for her benefit, it still felt like a reminder of what it could have been like, having a soulmate. One who actually gave a shit about her.

She sat on the wall instead, looking down at Tony’s landing platform, and, past that, the cars on the city streets.

Some of those fuckers were bonded, and she hated them with a passion.

When the stair door creaked open, interrupting her revelry of hate, she sighed deeply. Whoever it was – and it was probably Jane – she didn’t want to deal with them right now. “Can’t a girl brood in peace?” she called over her shoulder.

“Sure,” said Clint’s voice, low and tantalizing and, in this moment, absolutely heartbreaking. “But I’ll have you know this is my brooding spot. You can’t have my brooding spot, go brood somewhere else.”

“So you admit you brood, huh?” she said. _Keep it casual, Darcy._

“Only when I have a really good reason,” he said, swinging his legs over the wall and dropping down to sit next to her. She bit back a groan. Sitting was bad, sitting meant he wasn’t planning on going away and leaving her to be bitter. “I’m guessing you have a pretty good reason.”

“Feels that way,” said Darcy.

“Can I guess?” Clint said, and she turned to look at him. He looked more serious than usual, his blue eyes boring into hers with an intensity that made her uncomfortable. His face was too close to hers, she could smell the warm scent of him, she ached to touch his skin. It was all too much. She had to look away. But even then, she could feel him sitting next to her, a solid presence, and their thighs were pressed together he was sitting so close. That point of contact felt like it was on fire.

“Go for it,” she said, her mouth dry.

“So here’s what I’m thinking,” said Clint, leaning back on his hands and gazing up at the smog-filled sky. “I’m thinking some schmo done you wrong.” He glanced at her, and she let their gazes meet for a fleeting second. “Probably you were into some guy – and that was your first mistake, men are morons – but he was oblivious. He hurt you.” His face twisted slightly. “Made a couple of bonehead mistakes, probably, and made you feel like you weren’t the most perfect thing he’d ever laid eyes on, which anyone could tell you was stupid of him and not true. You’re beautiful and talented and damn funny and if he fucked things up with you he’s going to regret it to the end of his days.”

Darcy could feel the tears pricking at her eyes now, feel the tightness in her throat as she gulped them back. Her lip quivered, and she viciously restrained it. _Never let them see you cry, Darcy_. She couldn’t be positive, but it sure seemed like Clint was trying to apologize, and she didn’t want that. She didn’t want his apologies or his pity. “Well,” she managed. “Everybody makes bonehead mistakes. Like not appreciating how awesome I am.” She flashed him a grin, even though her heart was breaking. She hoped that didn’t show.

“Very true,” he said. “But, you know…considering we all make stupid mistakes…do you think maybe you could forgive the guy?”

“Course, Clint,” she said. “It’s cool. Forgiven and forgotten.”

He made a frustrated noise and reached for her, turning her to face him. She didn’t particularly want to meet his gaze, thank you, but he left her no choice. “Damnit, Darce,” he said. “Gimme a chance to start over here. Can’t you see how badly I wish I could take it all back?”

“I said I forgive you, what more do you want?” Darcy snapped, and then, to her horror, she burst into tears.

Clint looked equally horrified. “Aw, Darcy, no,” he said, broad thumbs brushing tears off her cheeks as his hand tenderly cradled her face. “Darcy, I…” He looked to be at a loss for words. Embarrassment flooding her system, Darcy tried desperately to get a lid on her emotions. Not only did he know how stupidly gone over him she was, now she had to pour her emotions all over him when he was just trying to smooth over the awkwardness with Natasha.

“I get it,” she said, trying to keep the hiccup out of her voice. “I get that you’re with her, and that… you just don’t feel that way about me, and…”

“What?” Clint said, looking utterly baffled.

“Natasha,” Darcy sniffled, wiping her face on her sleeve. “She’s…” She shook her head. “Well, I guess we both know I could never be like that.”

“Like Natasha?” Clint said. “I don’t want you to be like Natasha, why would you think…Oh.” A look of comprehension finally dawned. “You think me and Nat are…?”

Darcy’s heart stuttered painfully. “You’re not?”

“Well,” he said, “once upon a time, maybe. But…no. I’m not with Nat because I don’t want Nat. I didn’t _work_ with Nat.”

“Clint-” Darcy started, trying to quash the bloom of hope currently spreading through her chest, but he just said,

“Aw, fuck it,” cupped a hand around the back of her neck to pull her closer, and slotted his mouth against hers.

It was like nothing she’d ever experienced before. Sparks were lighting their way across Darcy’s skin, and his mouth was like a fire pressed against her. His tongue darted out to trace her lower lip, and Darcy’s fluttering hands settled on his broad, firm shoulders. He deepened the kiss and she clung to him, feeling his body heat soaking into her as she practically climbed into his lap trying to get closer. He tugged her to him, his free hand settling firmly on her waist, thumb brushing against her stomach through the fabric of her thin shirt. He pulled back abruptly, and Darcy couldn’t help the small breathy sound she made at losing the contact. He swung his legs back over the wall, hastily clambering to his feet and pulling her along with him. Once they were both safely on the rooftop, he closed in again, pressing her back against the wall and lowering his mouth to hers. Both hands were holding firmly to her waist, his fingers clenching in desperate, aborted movements as he gave her heady kisses that had her clinging to his arms, not just for the fun of it, but because of the very real possibility that her knees would give out.

“I’m…” Clint said, in between kisses, “a fucking…moron.”

“Established fact,” said Darcy, laying her fingertips against his cheeks, overwhelmed by the ability to touch him like this. “We’re both morons.”

He rested his forehead against hers, his hands sliding around to her back to hold her more possessively. “Sorry I was an ass.”

“Me too,” she said. “But if you don’t go back to kissing me in the next five seconds, I’m pushing you off this roof.”

He glanced behind him at the roof’s edge and shrugged. “I’ve had worse,” he said, then pulled her back into a heated kiss.

They left a trail of clothes from the roof to Clint’s bedroom. In the morning, when Darcy stumbled into the kitchen for two cups of coffee wearing nothing but a pair of underwear and one of Clint’s shirts, her hair neatly French braided down her back, she found Natasha there already and almost fled in terror. But Natasha just gave her a little smirk, mimed applause, and cleared out before Darcy could say anything. Darcy suspected she might like Natasha very much if she got to know her.

When she got back to Clint’s room bearing coffee, he made grabby hands at it, and then at her, and then their coffee got cold before they got around to drinking it. As she lay in a blissful sprawl on Clint’s bed, legs brushing against his, her fingers found the small black tattoo on Clint’s hip, and he responded by laying his palm over hers. She grinned at him, not forced this time, just a natural expression of how she was feeling, and Clint smiled back like he couldn’t help himself.

“You know what?” she whispered, tracing the letters on his skin.

“What?” he whispered back, scooting down to look into her eyes.

“I think March 11th is my new favorite day.”

He grinned at her and pulled her into his arms, tucking her head under his chin. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”


End file.
